


such a mark of love... (have you no idea that you're in deep?)

by MovesLikeBucky



Series: 12 Days of Blasphemy 2020 [6]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Blow Jobs, Ineffable Tutors (Good Omens), M/M, Masturbation, Sloppy Makeouts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:40:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28431042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MovesLikeBucky/pseuds/MovesLikeBucky
Summary: Sometimes he wonders what it would be like, to slip into bed alongside Aziraphale, to curl up close to him sleeping. These thoughts won’t do, of course. They’ll never have that kind of freedom.He thinks of Aziraphale’s fingers, quickly and deftly writing lines on the chalkboard. Of the laughter lines that crinkle around his eyes when he smiles. Of the twinkle he gets in his eye when they verbally spar in the classroom, arguing over this bit of history or that bit of science. No one gets Crowley quite like Aziraphale does, no one ever has and no one ever will.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Mr Cortese/Mr Harrison (Good Omens)
Series: 12 Days of Blasphemy 2020 [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2073915
Comments: 22
Kudos: 145
Collections: 12 Days of Blasphemy 2020





	such a mark of love... (have you no idea that you're in deep?)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Euterpein](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Euterpein/gifts).



> Day 6! This prompt is “I deserve, but to give me, oh! such a mark of love - union with thyself! Can this be?” (Act of Humility prayer)
> 
> Today we have some TUTORS!
> 
> This fic is going to my good friend Harmony; I am SO glad to have met you this year! You do so much in terms of running gift exchanges and making sure everyone has a good time, and I appreciate the hell out of you <3 <3

Crowley feels like a wire that’s about to snap.

It’s getting ridiculous, the proximity and the tension. They’re supposed to be stopping the apocalypse, teaching the boy, influencing him. But all Crowley can think about is how close Aziraphale has been the last five years. The trips to the museum, the hushed words on tops of buses, the box seats at the opera; working together for longer than they ever have at any point in their Arrangement. 

Crowley had thought he knew everything he could know about Aziraphale. After six thousand years, one tends to think they can’t be surprised anymore. Oh how wrong he had been.

He knows the exact way Aziraphale’s eyes droop when he’s getting tired. He didn’t used to get tired, always told Crowley that sleep is a pointless endeavor. The stress of raising Warlock and the impending doom of humanity have been taking their toll on him. Aziraphale will doze off, face plastered to the desk in the backroom, snoring so softly Crowley can barely hear him. It’s all Crowley can do some days to keep from wrapping a blanket around his shoulders, but they don’t do these things, so he wakes him instead and pretends he didn’t notice the angel sleeping. 

He knows the exact composition of smells that make up the angel’s cologne. Lavender and bergamot, a bit of caraway at the outset. He’s scented them with his snakes tongue when Aziraphale isn’t looking, flicking out and taking the molecules from the air, savoring them the way the angel savors desserts. He’ll pass someone on the street wearing a similar scent and have to stop as his heart jumps in his throat, as he looks around frantically for a halo of blond hair.

He knows the exact tone Aziraphale uses when he coos at roses, inspiring them with kindness instead of Crowley’s preferred malice. Knows the shape of Aziraphale’s mouth when it says how good and wonderful something is, as he pours love into his surroundings. But not at Crowley, never at him.

Sometimes he wonders what it would be like, to slip into bed alongside Aziraphale, to curl up close to him sleeping. These thoughts won’t do, of course. They’ll never have that kind of freedom.

He thinks of Aziraphale’s fingers, quickly and deftly writing lines on the chalkboard. Of the laughter lines that crinkle around his eyes when he smiles. Of the twinkle he gets in his eye when they verbally spar in the classroom, arguing over this bit of history or that bit of science. No one  _ gets _ Crowley quite like Aziraphale does, no one ever has and no one ever will.

He thinks of the shape of Aziraphale’s mouth, when the angel says his name. Wonders what shape it would take in a different context. Wonders how those broad hands would feel on his ribcage, his stomach, his throat; wonders about the lips, too.

Crowley pushes himself back from his desk with a snarl. He shouldn’t be working himself up like this, thinking about hands and mouths and soft plush curves hidden under yellow-plaid tweed. Shouldn’t be thinking about taking Aziraphale in his hands or in his mouth, watching his cheeks turn pink, listening to his breath quicken as he takes his pleasure from Crowley.

He unzips his trousers slowly, freeing his erection to the cool air of his flat. Swipes his thumb over the tip, thinks of gold signet rings and moans that escape around dessert forks and starts to stroke himself slow.

That’s how Aziraphale would do it, if he did it, Crowley is certain. He’d be slow and methodical, like his study methods. He’d pull slow, maybe circle his thumb along the underside —yes, just like that— just enough to tease, bastard that he is. Crowley can picture Aziraphale above him, can almost feel the angel’s lips on his neck, the scrape of the beard he’s been sporting lately as it drags across his skin.

He thrusts his hips up into his hand, doesn’t even make a pretense of it. It should be shameful, getting off to the thought of his friend, but Crowley can’t find it in himself to care right now. He needs the release, needs to let go of this tension that threads through him stronger than ever.

_ Yes, darling, you love it when I touch you, don’t you? Desperate for it, needy for it. _

_ “ _ Yes, fuck, Aziraphale,” he chokes out as he strokes himself, fucks his fist with abandon. He lets his head fall back and his eyes drift closed, imagining Aziraphale there, slamming down onto his cock over and over, taking every inch of it.

He doesn’t hear the door open, doesn’t hear the click of oxfords on the concrete floors, doesn’t hear Aziraphale turn the corner into his office.

He does hear the moment Aziraphale drops the folders to the floor, papers scattering wildly and shuffling across the stone.

“Crowley! I—I’m sorry… should have… should have knocked.” Aziraphale says quickly as Crowley freezes still as a statue. Aziraphale turns away from him but doesn’t leave, just stands awkwardly in the doorway, pointedly not looking at him. “We had… we had a meeting, you didn’t show, and I got worried —“

“Shit, sorry, lost track of time.”

There’s a heavy silence between them, neither of them really sure what to do next. It stretches and molds into the corners of the room, thick like a fog choking any words Crowley tries to form. He slips his hand off of his cock, scoots the throne back closer to the desk. The sound of the legs scraping the floor is somehow louder than it has ever been. 

“So, meeting,” he says, trying to break the silence that hangs over him like a guillotine blade. Aziraphale still won’t turn to face him. “What did you want to talk about; lesson plans? Warlock’s progress being turned to good?”

“If it’s all the same I think I’ll just go, I shouldn’t be here…”

Despite his words, Aziraphale doesn’t move. He stays frozen in the doorway, fidgets with his ring, hesitates. Crowley has seen this look on his face before, seen this particular tremble in Aziraphale’s shoulder. It usually accompanies Aziraphale’s weaker moments, when he wants to be tempted, wants to be cajoled. When he really and truly wants something that he doesn’t think he’s allowed.

“You don’t have to leave,” Crowley says, and he means it. Their close quarters these days only make Crowley long for his company more. Aziraphale turns to face him finally, a look on his face that Crowley can’t place. Something between longing and sadness.

“No?”

“No, I’d much rather you stay.”

“You’re still…um…” Aziraphale gestures vaguely towards him.

“I can banish it, sorry you had to see me like that.”

As Crowley moves to snap his fingers, Aziraphale speaks again with a voice barely a whisper, “I wish you wouldn’t.”

“Wouldn’t what?”

“Banish it…stop, that is…”

Crowley stares at Aziraphale dumbfounded as the angel takes a deep breath. He crosses the room to the desk, reaches across it and takes Crowley’s hand, ignoring the chasm of distance between them.

“Crowley, you must know by now…” Aziraphale says as he laces their fingers, as Crowley’s heart threatens to jump out of his chest, “Don’t make me say it, I don’t…I don’t think I can yet..” 

“Show me then.” Crowley says on a breathless whisper, taking a chance on whatever is hanging in the air between them. Aziraphale hesitates for just a moment, eyes flicking upward, the old nervous tick before he does something reckless. He reaches out, takes hold of Crowley’s loosened necktie, and pulls him onto the desk, across the chasm that separates them. 

It’s not how Crowley ever pictured their first kiss, not what he ever would have expected as Aziraphale climbs onto the marble desk with him. Aziraphale’s kiss is consuming; like he’s savoring the taste of Crowley’s lips. That damnable tongue that has tortured Crowley’s most explicit daydreams with its soft pinkness explores his mouth, maps out a path and drinks from him. Crowley gives back in kind, long fingers sliding through Aziraphale’s beard up into his cotton fluff hair, pushing him back and climbing on top of him, straddling and pinning him to the desktop as he kisses him and kisses him and kisses him.

Their hands map out the curves of each other’s bodies, pushing aside the clothes that get in the way, tumbling and twisting over each other on top of the hard marble. (It doesn’t break, barely even protests. Crowley would never allow it to.) One moment he is on top, but then Aziraphale will shift and pin him under his sturdy weight. There are lips on his neck, teeth on his ear, tangles of hands and arms and legs. By the time they come up for air, Crowley is down to just his pants, cock still hanging out and very much interested. Aziraphale has lost his waistcoat and shirt in the shuffle, his trousers are unzipped and pushed down around his thighs.

“Angel, should we, do you…” Crowley pants out around shaky breaths, unable to believe his position, pinned to a desk by the most heavenly weight he’s ever felt, red burns from Aziraphale’s beard coming to light on his skin, deep bruises where Aziraphale has bitten them onto his chest.

“Probably not, but I find myself strangely unable to resist you at the moment,” Aziraphale says as he grips the back of Crowley’s neck possessively, dragging him into another deep and desperate kiss, “I think I’d much rather continue than stop, wouldn’t you?”

A flash of steel gray eyes, staring deep into his soul. The honesty of the words folds over Crowley like a blanket, shrouding him in the warmth of Aziraphale’s love. “I don’t want to stop, angel, not ever.” The honesty pours out of him despite himself. He’s drunk on Aziraphale’s kiss, he can be forgiven a few slights. “Angel…Aziraphale, it’s been so long, and I’ve lo—“ 

“No, my dear,” Aziraphale presses a finger against his lips, silencing him, “We can’t say that yet, but someday…someday I’ll tell you properly.”

Aziraphale climbs off of him and Crowley whimpers at the loss of the sturdy weight holding him down. He feels like he might float away without it, but Aziraphale just takes his hand, pulls him to the edge of the desk as he drops to his knees.

“Angel, wait, shouldn’t I—“

“Darling, let me take care of you,” Aziraphale says softly as he presses a kiss to the tip of Crowley’s cock. It’s soft like a prayer, but heavy like benediction. The sight of Aziraphale on his knees, grip firm on his slim thighs, face close enough to his cock that he can feel the angel’s breath against it, threatens to be Crowley’s undoing. But he’s kneeling, and waiting for an answer, submitting himself to Crowley in a way he never thought the angel would.

“Aziraphale…”

“Please, Crowley…” It’s the crack in Aziraphale’s voice that strengthens his resolve. He nods, slides a hand into Aziraphale’s hair as the angel takes his cock in down to the base. Crowley’s other hand grips the edge of the desk with force enough to break as he wills himself not to buck into the warm and wet heat of Aziraphale’s mouth.

Aziraphale grips the base of his cock, stroking in time with his mouth as he stares up at Crowley. It’s a messy business, drool soaking his beard that rubs coarse against Crowley’s thighs as the demon gasps and moans, needy noises pulled out of him with every swipe of Aziraphale’s tongue and every swallow of his throat.

It’s too much. It should be the other way around. It should be Crowley there on his knees, worshipping Aziraphale like his life depends on it. If only Aziraphale knew how often it really does.

Crowley comes with a broken and strangled cry, spilling down Aziraphale’s throat as the angel works him through his orgasm. He softens in the angel’s mouth, nonsense noises and pleas falling from his lips as he comes down. Aziraphale stands, pushes him into the desk again, kissing him deeply. He can taste himself on Aziraphale’s tongue and it makes him want to sob, to have anything like this, finally, after so long of wanting. 

He reaches down between them, wanting to give Aziraphale the same gift he’s just been given. Aziraphale stills his hand, twines their fingers together, “Next time, dear, next time.”

“Next time?” A jolt of happiness threads its way through Crowley’s entire being at the thought of it, of being this close again. 

“Yes, darling, next time.” Aziraphale gathers him up into his arms, makes his way around the desk to sit in the throne, with Crowley pillowed close to him. “Now then, we were meant to be discussing lesson plans. How do you feel about trigonometry?”

Crowley laughs into the crook of Aziraphale’s neck, but definitely does not  _ nuzzle _ there, completely unbecoming of a demon. “You give me the single greatest blow job of my life and you want me to talk about  _ maths _ ? No, no maths.”

“I see,” Aziraphale says, brushing a gentle touch through Crowley’s hair, “What shall we discuss then?”

“Astronomy,” Crowley says decisively. “Big astronomy fan, me. I made them, you know.”

“Well, by all means, tell me all your lesson plans on astronomy.”

They stay awake into the wee hours of the morning, wrapped in each other and in conversation. Crowley tells Aziraphale about the stars and the planets and how they were shaped in the days before Earth, about the ones he helped to make and the ones he only observed. He can smell Aziraphale’s cologne, closer than ever and taking over his senses. Lavender, bergamot, and caraway; with some cedar in the base of it that he hadn’t picked up before. 

He breathes in deep, breathes in steady, here in this moment that he’ll never forget.


End file.
